


Carry On, You Vagabonds

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, F/F, F/M, First Time, M/M, Toys, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a life for following rules.</p><p><span class="small">No spoilers past season 1.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On, You Vagabonds

Some part of him will always be a deviant. The kid who came to school late, smelling of lighter fluid and smoke and sweat. The kid who got suspended for having a Bowie knife in his locker (thankful they never found the Butterfly shoved into his sock). The kid who stole soda from a mini-mart, lifted cereal from a Kroger, shoplifted jeans from a Walmart and snuck two new Goodyears out of a garage when the Impala had managed two flats at once. He was never one for controlling impulses. After all, they always came on full force, endorphins charging him from the marrow to the topmost epidermal layer, like he could scratch his skin and set off sparks. How do you question that? It seemed natural — too visceral to be reasoned down and reduced to a simmering little fire in his belly.

But afterward came consequences.

* * *

While waiting for his brother to finish up the after school dress rehearsal for the pansy-ass play he was doing, Dean had taken a girl up on the catwalks — nearly pushing her because she was afraid of heights. The spiral staircase made her nervous; her pale hands shook as they gripped along the railing. He looked up her skirt and saw her thighs trembling as well (and he could see the dark crease of her ass under the thin, pink cotton of her panties).

Up there, in the dark, overlooking the amber-cast stage, he felt like a god. A god of the rafters.

He was no Zeus, and would never take what this slight girl wasn’t willing to give. But he slid his arm around her shoulders while he pointed at and mocked the actors and crew below (Sam in his orange makeup with his shaggy hair gelled back), and he could feel her relax against him, giving in to his slow coercion. Her legs were already open before he even slid his hand under her skirt.

She was shaking when she came, and maybe he was too.

* * *

Sam’s hand shook slightly as it swiveled over the head of his cock.

It's not as though he'd never jerked off in front of anyone before. Hell, some of the best sex (if that was a fair term) he'd ever experienced had been with a girl who enjoyed watching him masturbate while she slowly slid her hand between her own legs and teased herself to orgasm, long after he'd come on his own belly (sometimes twice).

But this girl, this one was different. She fixed him with such a hard stare that he didn’t dare look away, hardly dared to blink. His eyes watered at the strain, raw and exposed to the air.

Jess made him feel vulnerable, sliced open, peeled apart. No girl had ever done this.

He pressed his lips tightly together, trying to focus, trying to achieve control, trying to will his quivering eyelids to—

“Stop.”

* * *

“For fuck’s sake, stop that!”

Sam remembers the first time he was caught — by his brother no less.

Dean had barged into the bedroom, already agitated that he had to tell his little brother to grab his coat and get in the car. His face had flushed with anger and embarrassment when he saw Sam spanking it right over _his_ personal stash of _Hustler_ magazines.

It was nothing compared to the embarrassment Sam felt. He started at the sound of the door opening and splurted all over poor Miss January.

He’d kept the issue, certain Dean wouldn’t want it back anyway.

* * *

Sam winced.

He heard Jess say “stop” again, this time quieter, kinder, but still firm. Defying both of them, his hand stroked down his shaft once more, right in time to the ratchety sound of a vibrator being switched off. He stilled his hand, cradling himself with stiff fingers. Out of his periphery, he saw Jess pull the pink toy out of herself, eliciting a wet noise.

Not breaking eye contact, not weakening that fierce stare, she bent her knees, opened her legs wider and whispered lowly, “Come here and let me fuck you.”

A small growl tore up out of Sam’s throat. He rolled onto his side, closer to her, pulling himself up over her body with protesting limbs yet persistent need. Settling between her knees, he lifted them against her chest. He leaned in and she locked her legs around his shoulders, towing him into her. Head reeling, his eyes unfocused for a second. Then he looked down at her: hard but soft eyes, impatient but waiting. She was solid and warm, but sleek with cool sweat that trickled down her neck, around her breasts, down her stomach and mingled with his own sweat.

Her hands firm, she gripped his upper arm, thumb pushing into the ball of muscle. In the other, she still brandished the pink plastic penis. To say he felt threatened would have been downright silly. And somewhat true.

“That’s okay,” Sam said. “I brought my own.”

Jess scrunched her nose in a silent laugh, and Sam pressed half his face into her calf to hide his faltering deadpan.

“It’s not for me,” she said, chin pointing toward him. She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth and sucked it. “Well, sort of.”

She curled her fingers behind his ear and into his hair and drew his head down toward her as she raised the vibrator between them. The head of it shone, still wet from her, congealing and sticky when she rubbed it over his lips.

* * *

One of the best blowjobs Dean had ever had happened on the subway in Boston after a night of salting and burning the bones of some crusty old Puritan who still wouldn’t shut up about witches even after 400 years.

Next stop after ye olde cemetery had been one of those thousand-and-one Irish pubs, even though Dad warned him to keep it to a minimum in case they needed to get out of town quick. But they’d been discreet: punched out the streetlights with a few well-aimed stones, kept the fire contained, doused it as soon as the job was done. Same old routine. Besides, Dean was nineteen and thirsty and aching a little across his shoulders from the shoveling and, fuck it, his latest I.D. was a work of art. Besides that, he was horny too.

At Patty’s — or whatever it was called — a skinny bottle blonde had been hanging by his side all night, tugging at his elbow, brushing long, manicured nails over his stomach. Her skin was caramel-colored, like she’d just returned from a vacation in the Bahamas, or a vacation at a tanning salon. Nothing about her seemed natural. But it was nearly closing time, the train to their just-outside-of-town motel would stop running soon, and no other girl was showing the slightest bit of interest. Never mind that most of the other girls there weren’t so much girlish as they were Golden Girls. Whatever. There was this fake blonde, fake tan, probably fake boobed girl right here, good enough to be the real thing. For now. He’d whispered into her ear, rolled his eyes as she squirmed against him, and grabbed her hand, heading toward the bathroom. But all the stalls were occupied (one with four legs), and he’d be off his rocker to even _attempt_ the girls’ can with that long line. No sex in a full week, and Miss Bronze Blonde was willing. So, “Can I take you home?” Yeah, of course.

Only he didn’t really want to. And the subway was alarmingly empty.

“Crazy Train” repeated in his head the entire time. When the train jumped the tracks, her teeth caught on the skin around his glans, and his stomach lurched. Then it burned. She pulled back, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry.” But he pressed her head forward again, the memory of the pain still sending bolts of pleasure through his nerves. He couldn’t help smirking at the thought of getting off at “going off the rails” while he combed his fingers through the girl’s damp, gelled hair.

“Green Street,” an automated voice said while he tucked himself in and she zipped him back up.

* * *

“Hey.”

Sam ground lazily into Jess, grinned around the plastic in his mouth. He bit down on the rubbery glans, hooking it behind his bite. A heel dug into his ribs, raising the half-masts of his lids.

“Mind the teeth.”

His eyes brightened and his lips widened briefly, beaming impishly at her, before drawing inward and sucking the vibrator deeper into his mouth. Sam decided it was not unlike trying to eat a popsicle whole. This, however, refused to melt.

“Mmmm, that’s nice.” Jess smiled appreciatively, tipping her head to the side and squeezing around Sam.

His jaw dropped a little further at that, and she eased the vibrator farther into him until her fingertips brushed the insides of his lips. The ears of the rabbit bent against his chin. The spongy flaps tickled him and irritated him. His face burned and a match struck in his belly, blazing downward. Tilting his hips, he rocked hard up into her. Hollowing his cheeks, he sucked backward, releasing her vibrator. It tipped against the roof of his mouth as his dick pressed against the front wall of her vagina. When he pulled out, she pushed back in.

Sam fucked Jess, and she fucked his mouth.

Her stare penetrated him, eyes dark and drowning, and he tasted her, simple and a little salty over the plastic. Swallowing her, he didn’t ever want it to stop.

* * *

The first time Dean swallowed a dude whole wasn’t necessarily the best sex he’d ever had, but Dean found it didn’t really matter. He was curious and it was new, and the novelty helped him through the burn and gag.

This was New Orleans, before the levees broke and tried to erode away its gleam, the glamour of jasmine twining around oxidized iron, an overgrown garden of streets, an undercurrent of life shoving up against death.

He was pushed against an old mausoleum, dirty chalk white like all the others. Rare moment of weakness, with his guard down, too preoccupied by a feather and some blood in the dirt at his feet, bending over, vulnerable. But that would change as soon as he got some leverage. His hand clawed around the edge of the tomb. He prepared to buck this guy or _whatever_ off him, when a hand closed over his and a voice whispered into his ear, kitten-licking with each consonant. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

That voice. That accent that didn’t sound southern, didn’t sound French, didn’t sound Spanish, but some mixed spice hybrid that Dean could almost taste on his tongue. The kid from earlier, from the voodoo shop. Dark bangs in his eyes and lines around those, making the hazel glimmer green, sharp against the caramel of his skin.

Dean couldn’t remember his name.

Can’t remember it now, never asked.

It’s still a blur how it happened: his cheek pressed up against the cold stone, peeled back and pressed into a warm thigh, fine hairs tickling his skin. He should have ripped this guy a new one, and he could’ve. He could have cracked him in half, left him in the maze of sinking monuments, broken and barely held together. Like those big, hairy bastards who crowded too close to Dean at truck stop urinals, eyes only for his lips. But this time he didn’t fight. Dean breathed in through his nose, incense from the voodoo shop still on the kid’s clothes, like a layer of dust. He leaned forward and opened his mouth wide.

Long fingers curled around the back of his head, thumbs stroking around the curl of his ears, as he swallowed with his mouth full.

“Don’t swallow it all,” the kid had said. And Dean did as he was told, letting the kid lick his mouth clean.

Stumbling back to his room later, with come drying in his pants and kohl smeared on his cheek, Dean didn’t look that much different than any other night. But he could see right through that reflection in the mirror. Right straight through.

* * *

It stopped in November, before Sam ever found the right ring, let alone got the chance to give it to her.

She was the only one, the only person he let so far into his life. Third in a line that, once eliminated, left him with only Dean. And Dad, wherever he was. Even Mom didn’t mean as much: an abstract concept with no memory to ground it, as intangible as the word _love_. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that, least of all Dean. When he saw the love in Dean’s eyes, it was the closest he got to knowing what it would be like to love Mom too. To love her as more than a missing piece. Like the bed he and Jess had gotten at a yard sale — one leg missing, replaced, once in their bedroom, by an outdated Merriam-Webster.

It was horrible to think of Mom that way. But he had no other thoughts of her to pull from, except for those belonging to others.

So he replaced no memories with borrowed ones.

But he didn’t replace Jess.

When life took one away, Sam just took what was left.

* * *

When Sam left, Dean pretended everything was fine. Sometimes he pretended Sam was still around: letting the shower run long after he was done, carrying home an extra brown bag soaked through with grease, fucking girls in the cramped backseat of the Chevy instead of the relative comfort of the motel bed. Sometimes he pretended Sam had never been there at all. Dean Winchester, the only son of John and Mary. But it didn’t last long: the memory of Sam was too stubborn, shoving past the artifice to sit heavy on Dean’s chest.

It lightened only, didn’t lift, when he arrived in Palo Alto on Halloween. Sam pinned Dean to the floor of his apartment and the real weight of him could not compare to the weight of him inside Dean.

How long had he waited for the real thing?

When it was there, in front of him, breathing hot into his own face, Dean still questioned its veracity. He lived with ghosts, insubstantial footsteps behind his own, ephemeral touches in the dark. The thought that Sam might become, might already be, one of them haunted him.

So he tested Sam.

“Hey, remember that play you did?”

“Remember that time Dad and me torched that colonial fucker in Boston and brought you back his handwritten sermon on the evils of witchcraft or some shit for your school project? You got like over a 100 on that, right?”

“Oh and remember....”

* * *

Sam remembered.

Sam remembered sneaking up to the catwalks during a break in rehearsals to find his brother’s face buried beneath some senior’s skirt, tongue lapping at the folds between her legs. Sam remembered smelling the musky scent on Dean, coming home from a late night in Boston. And Athens and Flagstaff and Fayetteville and Tacoma and Macon and all the forgettable towns in between. All those late nights when homework was the last thing on his mind, blood having left his brain at the commingling thoughts of sex and _Dean_. Wondering what it was like for those girls, wishing, futilely _willing_ Dean to bring one home, just once, and share with Sam — give him that much. Sam remembered fucking his mouth on Jess’s pink vibrator, thinking it would be the closest he’d ever get to knowing what it would be like to have Dean fuck his mouth. And he loved her. He loved Jess so much. But, god help him, he loved Dean too. Not the way he was supposed to. But the only way he could.

Dean gave him everything. But he wanted more.

And by _more_ Sam didn’t mean how Dean let him drive his car, though he knew the gesture meant more than it seemed to on the surface. After Jess died, after Sam was back in the family business, Dean let him drive a lot. Out of Black Water Ridge, on the way to Burkittsville, leaving Cape Girardeau.

Months had passed, and Dean was still doing it.

The keys to the car pressed into Sam’s palm, and he wanted Dean, the hard length of him, the heat, there instead. He lifted his hand to his face, the biting tang of metal lingering on his skin where he wanted the sharp tang of musk. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Stop.”

The keys dangled beneath the ignition.

Dean’s lips pursed, open in the center, a question waiting behind them, ready to be spoken.

“Just.” Sam lifted his hand, wanting to reach, wanting to touch. It curled around the steering wheel instead, gripping hard to hide the shake in his fingers. “Just please stop talking.”

Dean did as Sam asked; it was not what Sam wanted.

* * *

What Sam wanted, at the moment, was to just get off. Get his hand down his pants and get rid of that burn and ache.

Another motel on the outskirts of a podunk town, with water stains and cracks and that persistent smell of must and the familiar film of mildew in the bath tub, mold fuzzing at the corners of the windows, and a paper card atop the television promising a variety of porn selections for any paying patron’s viewing pleasure. Just like every other motel. And as soon as Sam could figure out how to get Dean out of the room, he (or Cliff Montgomery) would be happy to pay up.

Eventually, he decided to give in and ask.

Apparently, it was all he had to do. On the other side of town, a sign outside of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant advertised the best ribs in the tri-county area, and Sam wondered if Dean would mind picking some up and bringing them back. He didn’t.

As soon as Sam heard the scrape of wheels reversing in gravel, he had the phone in his hand, dialing up the first number his gaze landed on.

It started off simple, softcore. The paper thin perception of plot, something involving a play within a play. Plump lips and fake tits and girls kissing each other with their faces aimed toward the audience, toward the camera. One girl pulled back and said, “Line?” And a dirty blond guy walked up to the stage, pulled her onto the edge and began eating her out. The other girl hopped off the stage, went down on her knees and the camera followed her as she licked her way up the guy’s already exposed and leaking and, frankly, enormous cock. It was textbook and cliché and Sam was close to coming in the tight circle of his fist when the door opened and Dean walked in.

“Jesus. Fuck.” Dean shuffled backwards, ready to close the door as he retreated.

Sam wasn’t thinking when he said it. Too busy trying not to come, trying not to move his hand, trying to _think_ and failing miserably. So he said it.

“Wait.”

Dean stilled at the door, hand on the knob, but he didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

“Dean, wait.”

* * *

Dean waited for Sam to say something. Tell him why he should wait, shouldn’t walk out and let Sam finish. A little thrill of hope flipped over in his stomach, then twisted, making him feel sick.

Here he was, standing like a fool, dinner leaking hot and greasy through white paper against his thigh, while his brother sat on the edge of the bed with his dick in his hand. And Dean was the one who felt caught out. He couldn’t look Sam in the eye, but he caught a glimpse of the fat, pink head of Sam’s cock poking out of Sam’s fist, long fingers curled around his shaft, the other hand pushed into the V of his legs, lower, playing with his balls or—

Dean was so hard he couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. He slowly raised his eyes to Sam, shameful but hopeful, still waiting.

Sam’s head was turned away, looking toward the bathroom. “I’ll just—” he began, moving as if to get up.

And then he looked back at Dean. Eyes wide, flickering light from the television casting shadows over them. Someone on the TV moaned, loud and obnoxious, and Dean’s head turned toward the noise in time to see some girl push her fingers alongside some guy’s dick as it drove in and out of some other girl’s pussy.

Licking his lips, Dean pressed the door shut behind him, the soft click of it followed by the too-loud crinkle of the paper bag as he slowly set it down. He kept his eyes on the television and made his way to the other bed, lowered himself onto the corner of it, closest to Sam but facing away from him.

If he just kept looking at the TV, it would be okay. Guys get off on porn. Sam was getting off on porn. No reason he should stop. No reason Dean shouldn’t get off too. Get their money’s worth.

* * *

The girl with the exploratory fingers was getting a money shot when Dean started rubbing his palm against his crotch. Not that Sam saw anything on-screen. He was too busy watching Dean, wanting Dean even more now that he was so close.

Sam felt worse than before Dean had gone out. His cock pulsed in his hand, the burn of _want_ and _need_ and _Dean_ radiating from his chest to his thighs. The ache of it all pulling him inside out.

Why was Dean doing this, when he’d never done anything like it before?

He glanced at the television, then looked straight on at Dean. His bitten lip, his flushed cheeks, the stiffness of his shoulders sent mixed signals: awkward, aroused, ashamed. But Dean was rock hard, the bulge in his jeans under taut, taut denim a telltale sign. No matter how much of a cocky, horny sonofabitch Dean was, Sam didn’t think he could go from zero to 60 after a couple seconds of porn.

Testing it out, he resumed stroking himself, slow and easy. He said, “Dean,” drawing Dean’s attention back to him.

Dean’s gaze lighted on Sam’s face, then slid lower and fixed on the steady stroke of his hand. Sam watched the fall of Dean’s bottom lip as he sucked in a sharp breath before his teeth sank in again, worrying the lip, darkening it.

“Dean,” he said again, spreading his legs as far as they’d go with his jeans around his thighs, crooking a finger behind his balls and up into himself.

Sam didn’t know if Dean could see what he was doing. But, when Dean got up off the bed and dropped onto his knees in front of him, he didn’t think it mattered all that much.

* * *

Dean couldn’t fight it if he tried. And he didn’t try. The impulse took him, pulled him and pushed him. In the hunt, he trusted these impulses, these instincts that told his body how to move, when to swing, where to hit. Just the same, he knew when he needed to run. And nothing in him said run this time. But his brain stilled him, froze him like a rabbit in front of Sam, waiting, wanting to to be sure it was safe.

“Is this?” The words caught, uncertainty in his raw throat. He looked up at Sam. His brother — sweat at his temples, pupils blown, lips wet and parted as he nodded at Dean. Firm, undeniable. “This is what you want,” Dean finished, no longer much of a question.

“You?” Sam said. And Dean closed his eyes and sighed out a shaky laugh.

Dean stole and lied his way through life, all rough vagabond grace and outlaw swagger. But he wouldn’t take anything from Sam without permission. And he couldn’t deny him the truth, no matter how long he’d gone denying it in himself.

Leaning forward, he answered Sam with lips and tongue. He licked around Sam’s fingers, slipped his tongue between Sam’s hand and cock and traced the ridge of his glans before sucking the head completely into his mouth. Sam bucked and groaned, a sharp thrust and a low rumble that Dean could feel past his lips. He peeled Sam’s fingers off his cock, stretched his neck and went down on Sam as far as he could take him, hairs tickling his nose, sweat and salt and the _fullness_ in him overwhelming his senses.

Knuckles brushed his chin, and Dean pulled off to watch Sam’s finger as it slid in and out of his hole. Dean tilted his head sideways and stroked his lips down Sam’s shaft. He eased Sam’s sac onto his bottom lip, feeling its weight tug his lip down, rolling his tongue beneath it. The tip of his tongue slipped over Sam’s fingers again and Sam’s other hand slid up the back of Dean’s head, brushing the short hairs, leaving a tingling sensation lingering behind. Dean leaned back into Sam’s touch, then lowered his head further, nosing up beneath Sam’s balls to lick at the pink skin clinging tight to Sam’s finger.

“Oh god,” Sam said. “Oh god,” as Dean pushed his tongue in next to Sam’s finger, wedged between muscle and knuckle. “You. Dean, you have to. Want you to...” Sam babbled above him.

Dean put his hand over Sam’s, replacing his tongue with a finger, moving in time with him. He licked and bit and sucked his way up the inside of Sam’s thigh, nudged his shirt up and mouthed a wet kiss low on Sam’s belly.

Resting his head on Sam’s thigh, he rolled his cheek to look up at Sam.

“Gonna fuck you, Sammy.”

Sam stroked his thumb down the side of Dean’s face. Dean nipped at it, and Sam pushed past his lip to trace along the bottom row of his teeth before pulling out and trailing his thumb down Dean’s chin, stroking down his neck.

Dean swallowed, corner of his lips quirking up. “You want that?” he asked. And he pushed a second finger in alongside Sam’s.

* * *

Sam figured the question was rhetorical, but the answer came spilling out anyway. “God, Dean. _Yes._ ”

This was more than Sam ever expected, and Dean was offering more still.

With a soft moan, he slid his finger out of himself and fisted both hands in Dean’s collar to urge him up, yanking the shirt wide toward his shoulders.

“Need to see you,” he said, bending forward. “Need this.” And he brushed his lips tentatively against Dean’s, then licked the seam of them until Dean’s mouth opened and his tongue curled up against Sam’s. Dean’s teeth scraped over Sam’s bottom lip as they kissed and panted, hardly holding their breath.

Fingers still buried deep inside Sam, Dean cradled Sam’s head with his other hand, mouthing over Sam’s chin, along the hard line of his jaw, over the shell of his ear, sliding his tongue behind it up into his hairline.

Sam had Dean’s flannel almost off of him, one sleeve still hanging off his working wrist. He rucked Dean’s t-shirt high up on his chest, rolling a nipple between his third and fourth fingers, making Dean gasp into his neck. Sam opened his mouth over the tight nub and rubbed the flat of his tongue against it. Ragged and tuneless, Dean hummed low in his throat. Sam took a moment to tease his teeth lightly over the nipple before moving off and tugging Dean’s arm out of his t-shirt. The shirt left a mess of spikes in Dean’s hair as Sam pushed it over his head, and Sam scratched his fingers up the back of Dean’s scalp, tousling his hair even more as he leaned in to reclaim his lips.

Dean withdrew his fingers from Sam and shrugged his shirts off the rest of the way. Sam felt hollowed and burned raw where Dean had been. But he needed more. Needed Dean inside of him.

But first he wanted Dean naked before him. He wanted to taste Dean on his tongue. He remembered Jess’s toy, the warmth of it from being inside her, the bitterness of her come mingling with the flat rubbery taste of plastic.

It still hurt to think of her. But Dean was here. Dean would always be here.

Getting him to his feet, Sam opened Dean’s pants and pushed them down, underwear and all, unceremonious and urgent. He wanted to linger, but hoped there’d be time for more later. Time to learn each and every taste of Dean’s body, to learn its angles and slopes, to map it with his fingers and memorize it with his tongue, by rote. So much he already knew, could file away and keep with him. But his mouth watered at the sight of Dean’s cock, thick and heavy, the red flush of blood in it standing out against the near-golden thatch of curling, coarse hairs. It was no longer than Jess’s toy, but it stretched Sam’s mouth wider when he swallowed it down.

“ _Fuck._ ” Dean jerked up into him, and Sam grabbed onto Dean’s hips to steady him as he sucked up Dean’s shaft, pushing the point of his tongue into the wet slit.

Sitting back, Sam licked the inside of his own cheek, the taste of Dean strong in his mouth.

Rising and standing in front of Dean, so close their cocks bumped together in a slippery tease, Sam leaned down and opened his mouth over Dean’s, feeding Dean’s own taste to him. Then he straightened back up, grabbed his shirt collar at the back of his neck and yanked it over his head. He pushed his pants the rest of the way down and kicked them off.

He stood naked in front of his brother. His heart raced and his breath stuttered out of him.

Keeping Dean’s gaze, steady, unwavering, Sam kneeled his way back onto the bed, dragging Dean with him.

* * *

Dean dragged his palms down Sam’s broad chest. A topography of hard muscle tapering down to the soft, flat plane of his belly. Dean licked up the center of Sam, between his own splayed hands, dipping into the space between Sam’s collar bones, up his neck, over his Adam’s apple, biting the tender flesh below his jaw. He moved up, breathing hard against Sam’s ear as his hands moved around Sam’s sides, one stopping at his hip while the other cupped Sam’s ass, a finger stroking down between his cheeks.

“On your stomach, Sammy,” he said, teasing his finger down the back of Sam’s balls before pulling away.

His brother’s immediate obedience hit him hard. Although obstinate, Sam had often been the little brother following Dean’s lead. Dean followed now, draping himself over Sam, pushing his hands under Sam’s chest to hold him close.

Resisting, keeping his hips back, he pressed his face into Sam’s neck. Soft, wet kisses over skin and veins and spine. Dean could feel Sam’s pulse beat up into his lips, light, rapid, insistent. “Sammy, _Sam_ , I—”

Sam reached back and met his mouth, murmured against it. “I know, Dean, I know.” He nipped sideways at Dean’s mouth. “We’re so fucked up.”

Dean laughed silently, forehead pressed to Sam’s shoulder. He could feel Sam right there with him, the shake of soft laughter. Then the soft tremor as Dean slid his cock up the crease of Sam’s ass.

Sam’s head fell to his folded arms. “Dean, please. _Please._ ” His knees slid forward, opening him to Dean.

In Dean’s wallet there was a small packet of lube next to a condom, and he nearly tore his jeans pocket to shreds getting to them. Back on the bed, he tore open both, rolling the condom down his shaft, coating the latex with lube. More on his fingers, he drew a wet trail from the small of Sam’s back down to to his perineum. A second time, he dipped lower, barely touching Sam’s hole. A third time, and stopped to trace a slow circle around it, then spiraled his way in. Tight, tight heat surrounded him, better at this angle. Dean stroked in and out slowly. Moaning, Sam pushed back and Dean added a second finger, watched both disappear deep into Sam, all the way to the third knuckles. Scissoring his fingers on the way out, he stretched Sam’s hole enough to add a third on the way back in. Knuckle deep again, he curled his fingers, twisted and curled again. Sam let out a low cry, rocking forward and backward, cursing.

“Now, Dean. Now.”

Sweat shone on Sam’s back as it arched, ready for him. Dean rose up on his knees, lined up with Sam, held his cheeks open as he pushed inside. Muscles clamped tight around his head and he almost came right then and there. Thumb and forefinger ringing the base of his cock, he eased himself in. Then he let go. Grabbed Sam by the hips, pulled out slow, so slowly he had to grit his teeth against it. He pulled out until the rim of Sam’s hole caught around the head of his cock. Then in hard, a faster thrust.

Sam strove back to meet him, fucking himself on Dean’s cock. “Yeah, Dean, like that. Harder. Come on.”

A growl ripped out of Dean, and he gripped Sam hard enough to bruise, pumping in and out of him in fast, deep strokes.

* * *

Sam grunted with each slap of skin on skin. His thighs tensed, moving back and back and back with as much force as he could, pinning himself on Dean.

A swivel of Dean’s hips had him rubbing against Sam’s prostate again. A short spark that refocused the burn in Sam’s body past the strain in his arms, the ache in his neck, the chafing of his knees, the trembling of his legs. He reared up on one hand, reaching back to fan his fingers over Dean’s thigh. Clawing at sweat-slippery skin, Sam dug his nails in, urging Dean back to that spot.

Dean shook as Sam’s nails bit into him. “So close,” he moaned. And Sam was too.

“Dean.” Sam panted around his name, eyes screwed tight as Dean found his prostate and the sparks overtook him, again and again with each thrust. “Don’t stop. Gonna—”

Fingers warm and slick enveloped him, kneading, jacking him so fast it almost hurt, felt so good. Dean’s hand was barely on him before Sam came, hot on his belly, spurting over Dean’s fingers, onto the bed.

* * *

The bed shook as Sam came, the headboard rattling against the wall. Dean felt the vibrations of it in his legs and chest. Sam clenched down around him as Dean squeezed relentlessly at his cock, and Dean lost all rhythm. Losing all breath, he tensed and came hard, hips snapping up into Sam.

He jerked a few more times, muscles spasming. Letting go, he collapsed over Sam, gasping into his back, teeth scraping against Sam’s shoulder blade.

“Sam,” he said, somewhere between a whisper and a sob, his lungs burning with the deep pull of air as he came down. Blood thrummed through him, Sam’s harsh breathing rocked up into him. And then the bed shook under him again. Less than before.

Sam was laughing.

“What?” Dean started, then he heard it too. Saxophone-slinky porno music filtered in from the television. He chuckled into Sam’s skin. “Couldn’t ask for a better soundtrack.”

Sam barked out a sharp laugh as Dean smacked him on the ass. “Yeah, Dean. Classy.” He smacked back at Dean’s ass. Dean’s cock twitched, over-eager. “Now get off me. You’re heavy.”

Dean rolled off, his hand sliding along Sam’s back to ease the way. “I ain’t heavy.” He smirked. “I’m your—” A weight fell back into place in his chest.

Sam’s soft voice contrasted with the abrasive music. “Dean,” he said. His thumb smoothed across Dean’s lips, pulling at the corner like he was trying to put that smirk back where it’d been. Dean closed his eyes, felt the bed dip, Sam’s damp bangs against his eyes, curtaining out the light that had seeped through his lids. Still thumbing one side of Dean’s mouth, Sam kissed the other. Then the center. Then up onto Dean’s forehead. Sticky lips pressed and clung lightly to each of Dean’s eyes, and he opened them when Sam withdrew.

The light from the television silhouetted Sam, a long, lean shadow in front of Dean. He reached out his hand, knowing it wouldn’t go through but needing the reassurance anyway.

When Sam moved to get up, Dean flattened his palm against Sam’s stomach.

“Be right back,” Sam said. And he was. Turning off the TV, he crawled back onto the bed, curling alongside Dean. Solid heat, solid weight, right there — and Dean felt like he might drift away were it not for the arm across his chest, holding him, holding back everything that came running through his brain.

* * *

In the trunk of the car, there’s an arsenal with not a single valid license to vouch for it all. In the glove compartment, plastic cards identify dozens of men all with the same faces. There’s a wallet stuffed with crumpled twenties from hustling pool and a duffel stuffed with frayed and stained clothes (half of them secondhand, the other half single-handedly stolen, stuffed inside jackets, away from security cameras).

This is not a life for following rules.

It’s not worth thinking about. Nothing’s ever going to make it stop. There will always be more rules to break, more ghosts to chase, more hidden signs leading you off the path you started down.

It’s not like you’re gods. You’re not above the rules — you’re just weaving through them, slipping through the cracks where they cease to fit.

That’s why.

You don’t expect it — any of it.

You just accept that life upends you, turns you over when you’re comfortably perpendicular. Life, you think, the great blindsider.

And who’s in control of that — life? Well, you, mostly. Sometimes.

Damn the consequences.

**Author's Note:**

> • Title stolen from “Vagabonds” by Gary Louris.
> 
> • Beta by zelda-zee.
> 
> • I accidentally deleted the original posting of this when I'd only meant to edit it. *head desk* My apologies if anyone had the first posting bookmarked.


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